Useful
by BurgundyBlur
Summary: *Oneshot* In the beginning, all John really had was Dutch and Hosea. Then there was a hunting trip.


A/N: This is the beginning of a series of one-shots I plan to do based on the relationship between John Marston and Arthur Morgan. It is an EXTREMELY slow burn. All of them take place 20 years or so before the events of RDR2, and are in no way cannon. Also, I have edited Abigail and Jack out completely. While I love their characters, they aren't relevant for what I've planned.

Useful

It was supposed to have been a simple errand.

The day was beginning to slip into evening as the sun began its slow descent into the west, and John had just happened to be heading to his own tent, when Dutch exclaimed loudly, "And who better than Mr. Marston to assist you on your endeavor?" John had stopped upon hearing his name to look at the source of the sound uncertainly.

"Come again?" His naturally hoarse voice was confused. Dutch was sitting in a chair in his tent, reclined back slightly to address him. His trademark hat was missing for once. Morgan was leaning forward on a leg that was propped on a barrel, looking roguish as ever. He watched John with a stony gaze, while Dutch smiled at him.

"I was just informing Arthur here that we were in some dire need of meat and such and I would like you to help him." Though his naturally charismatic voice offered a suggestion, they both knew the man well enough to know it was a command.

"And you think I'm the best choice for this?" John began protesting, his face incredulous. "Me and Morgan don't exactly see eye to eye."

"I'm well aware of that," Dutch waved him off, unconcerned, "I think it gives you the perfect opportunity to work out whatever soreness ya'll have managed to gather. Team building, as it were."

Arthur's expression had been unfathomable.

They had no reason or right to refuse their leader's orders, and both went about packing their belongings for the next few days.

As John was tightening the girth strap on his saddle, he paused to watch quietly as Morgan shoved a bottle of some dark amber liquid deep into his bag. 'He expects to need to be drunk to be near me.' John thought sourly.

They had ridden out soon after, John atop his chestnut stallion and Morgan astride his larger, dappled grey mare.

The sun's rays were filtering through the trees as it set, casting deep shadows upon the numerous foliage. The dark brown branches blew carelessly in a light breeze as it twisted leaves around the horses' legs. Once they reached the road, the open sky before them was painted in a deep orange-red, the opposite side of it getting swallowed into a deep indigo that swirled around cerulean blues. John never got tired of seeing the colors the sunset gave. Great, thin strips of cloud stretched across the sky in lazy lines and seemed to be the color barrier between the light and dark in the heavens. Dusk was supposed to be one of the best times for hunting deer apart from dawn. Something to do with the animals searching for a safe place to bed down for the night, causing them to roam sometimes.

John's stallion followed Morgan's mount at a canter from a few paces behind him, close in case communication was needed.

"Do you have any ideas of where we should go?" John called above the sound of hoofbeats and rattling gear.

"I have a few ideas." Morgan answered mysteriously.

'Old codger.' John thought. _Does he always have to treat me like a speck of dirt?_ "Feel like sharing?" He asked aloud, irritated.

"Nope." The older cowboy replied easily.

John didn't push the issue, instead focusing his attention to their surroundings as he quietly fumed in his saddle. _Asshole._ Typically he would be quick to argue, but he didn't feel like spending the next few days riding with uncomfortable tension.

They rode well into the night away from camp, passing several spots that, in John's opinion, would have been decent hunting grounds. Groves where deer had clearly bedded down for the night at some point and clearings in small wooded copses that would have been perfect for grazing. But they rode on past and he said nothing, not wishing to start an argument that he felt would inevitably arise.

The darkness seemed to press in on them from all around, making John's visibility limited to barely even what was a few feet in front of him. No moon was out tonight, and though the stars shined overhead with a brilliance to bring a man to tears, they didn't offer enough light to see by. He had no idea how Morgan was able to see where he was leading them.

They crossed a shallow stream, and after John's horse nearly fell due to stumbling over a rock, Morgan finally suggested they stop for the night.

"Should be an okay spot by them trees over there." He pointed at a location with a gloved finger as their horses stood side by side on the embankment.

John nodded his head. It was next to the stream, the part Morgan having gestured at being shielded from the road by a clutch of trees and a thicket.

The two outlaws guided the horses over and dismounted, quickly divesting the animals of their gear and going about setting up a makeshift camp. Morgan worked on getting the fire started and John went about setting up their sleeping rolls on opposite sides of the kindling.

A little while later saw John stargazing on his bedroll, his arms pillowed by his head. Morgan was relaxing on his own roll, one leg propped up in front of him and the other stretched out. He was nursing his bottle of John-suppressant and staring unseeingly into the fire, his expression far away and drunk. He had been working on the booze since they set up camp an hour earlier, only pausing to swallow some jerky and beans they had brought with them.

The fire wasn't small nor big, and its heat licked at John's skin nicely. It wasn't winter anymore, and none of the snow remained, but the spring air still had a remaining chill to it that nothing cured like a hot fire.

John's mind raced in deep thought. Regardless of what people at camp said about him being a hot-headed dreamer, he did think a lot. He thought of where he came from, and how he could never go back to living like that. He thought of the future, what they would do next, and if they would lose anyone else on any dangerous missions designed to further their gang's prosperity.

He thought a lot about how lonely it was. How lonely _he_ was.

Most people at camp had a role to play, and while John did at times, he wasn't like Mr. Pearson, who was the camp cook, or Sean, who had an incredible knack for coming across brilliant money-making opportunities. His value was little more than an extra gunman on a job. He was always the tag-a-long. Always needed rescuing. Always trying to be the hero and always ending up the damsel. And outside of these missions he occasionally went on with others, he didn't really much have any social interaction with anyone. He had no one to talk to, nobody he felt comfortable enough with to confide things in or share a drink with. Even after this trip with Morgan, who probably wouldn't care if he so much as died, they would likely both be content with spending their time acting like they hadn't gone hunting together, which was usually pretty fun when he went with Hosea.

Sure, John found a father figure in Dutch, most people did. It was what made them want to leave their lives and join up with him, regardless of the dangers. But as their leader, he was always concerned with more important matters. Thus, John had always been closer to Hosea, the much older man's wisdom and patience offering things to John nobody else ever had. But it still wasn't the same as having a friend.

"Watchu' thinkin' bout over there, boy?"

Morgan's gruff voice startled John out of his reverie, and he cleared his throat, answering with a hoarse, "Nothing in particular, I guess."

"Bullshit." John raised an eyebrow at the abrupt reply, looking over at the blonde outlaw, who was staring right back at him.

"Nobody's face looks like that by thinkin' bout nothin'."

"Looks like what?"

"Lost."

John swallowed and turned his face back towards the sky and away from Morgan's searching green eyes.

"Just wondered if we were gonna lose anyone else."

"Hoping it'd be me?"

"Why would you think that?" John's question caused silence between them for a moment. Crickets chirped in a harmonious chorus all around them, and the stream bubbled busily a few yards away. One of the horses snorted and stamped a hoof. The fire crackled soothingly.

"I haven't exactly been…amicable." Morgan said finally.

John frowned. "I don't even know what that means." To his surprise, the other man didn't laugh. "It means friendly." He replied.

John blinked as he realized the great Arthur Morgan was apologizing to him for lack of _friendliness._

"It's no big deal, it happens." John heard himself say.

Nothing was said after that, but the silence was comforting, and as John drifted off to sleep, his heart somehow felt a little lighter.

* * *

Morgan awoke John while it was still dark, nudging his foot with his boot and grumbling a "Rise n' shine."

John squinted up at the older man and yawned sleepily, white teeth flashing. Morgan stepped away to snub out the residual glowing embers of the night's fire, and John stretched his arms high to alleviate an ache that had developed in his back. He must've slept at an angle for he had a crick in his neck that rubbing at didn't seem to soothe.

John saddled up alongside Morgan in a daze, his mind and body exhausted from the little sleep they had. They took off towards the north, back on the trail they had been riding the previous night.

The two outlaws rode in silence and John dozed on and off, trusting his mount's intelligence to follow Morgan's grey mare. For having been drinking only hours earlier, Morgan was far more alert than John felt, who swayed at his stallion's every move.

The morning passed as such, and when the sun was above them in the sky, they passed the small but bustling town of Armadillo.

"Feel up to sharing where we're headed yet?" John asked Morgan above the sound of hooves on dirt. He felt a little better after catching up on a little bit of sleep as they rode. They passed by two men on horseback, and one tipped their hat to them in greeting. Only John acknowledged him back with a nod in turn.

"Up towards Twin Rocks, there's antelope." He revealed. "Antelope have leaner venison than normal deer. Less fat, more meat."

"Makes sense, I suppose." John replied.

That night saw them seemingly closer than previously, having covered roughly around fifty kilometers in the span of the day.

The fire roared pleasantly, and John sipped on a cup of the bitter liquor Morgan had deemed him worth enough to share with. He grimaced at the taste. It really was horrible, but that just meant it did its job.

John's legs ached from the constant riding. It's not like they were trying to cover great distances with any speed, but it was more the constant riding that made his limbs throb. He moved his hands up and down them, massaging the sore spots from his seated position on his bedroll.

Morgan smoked a cigarette across from him, the smoke wafting up and into the night as he clutched the bottle of booze in his left hand. His knee was propped in front of him and his back rested against the bough of a rather large tree. It's branches stretched over them as a canopy against the weather should it rain. The horses grazed sleepily nearby, lips ripping away at semi-lush grass.

John took a swig of his drink, relishing the burn, and said, "Can I ask a dumb question?"

Morgan's reply was short, "Better than anyone I know."

John plowed on, undeterred, "Does your horse have a name?"

Morgan puffed the cigarette and followed it with a drink of his own bottle. "Grey Wind."

John hummed in appreciation. It suited the mare, and it was a strong name.

"Yours?" Morgan asked in turn, surprising him. "Big John." He answered, feeling stupid. He hadn't ever told anyone what he'd named the brown animal.

Morgan chuckled, and John suddenly felt the need to defend his horse's honor. "Well, he's like me in a lot of ways. And he follows orders pretty well."

Morgan grunted. "Fair 'nuff." He snubbed his cigarette out with long fingers and flicked it into the grass some ways away. He took a drink of his bottle and John followed suit with his own cup.

"So tell me, Marston," Morgan began, and John's eyes slid over to meet the blonde outlaw's leaf green eyes. "How did someone like you wind up being able to stay with people like us?"

"Someone like me?" John repeated, unsure if this was going to end up with him getting insulted.

"You're a good man."

Morgan's words hit John with all the impact of a train collision. He could likely count on his fingers of all the times him and the older blonde had spoken, and most likely all those times would involve some form of veiled insult at his expense. To hear those words spoken so casually threw John for a loop.

"I…don't—" He began, swallowing thickly. Clearly Morgan had too much to drink.

"You're not like us; like Dutch, or Bill, or Javier." John watched, speechless, as Morgan turned to survey the night. "You're not a…a murderer. You don't kill if you don't have to."

"I've never seen you—"

"You're wrong." Morgan interrupted, sharp eyes swiveling back to John's meaningfully. "You don't know me as well as you think."

"I've run with you and the gang for a while now, and while killing isn't always justified, I don't see you being the type to be heartless."

Morgan looked away again, seeming content to watch the flames dance. "Like I said, kid, you don't know me."

John himself had come to them at the age of twelve. Dutch, back then a young twenty something, had somehow seen some scrap of worth in a scrawny little street rat like himself. Told him he had great potential and offered him riches and a life of adventure. As an orphan, the wild tales Dutch had spun had entranced him. Stealing from the rich only to give to the poor. People like him. A regular ole' Robin Hood.

At first, nobody had wanted anything to do with him. Nobody wanted to feel obligated to take care of some orphan fresh off the street. Nobody wanted an extra mouth to worry about. Nobody but Dutch and Hosea. Dutch had encouraged him to do his best, teaching him how to shoot, how to clean a rifle, what to look for when a man's lying, and how to treat a lady. Hosea had taught him how to ride a horse, how to fish and hunt, how to tell when there's going to be inclement weather, and how to survive in a world that wanted them dead. After much agonizing over his letters, Dutch had also later taught John how to read, even though he had never picked up an interest in fictional books like the older man had hoped for.

That had been seven years ago, and besides making nice with Mr. Pearson and the women of the camp, John had never really interacted with the others. Morgan treated him like he was a helpless fool, Bill looked at him with disgust, and Javier acted as if the man didn't exist. Thus he had steered clear of the lot of him. The women treated him alright, probably on account of him being so young.

"I killed a man a month ago." Morgan said it with the casualness of someone discussing the weather. He was still staring into the fire, his gaze blank in thought. The firelight played off of his eyes, lighting them up like fresh grass peeking through frost. He took a long deep pull from his bottle, then let out a belch and made a face at the taste. "I was coming out of a bar in some backwoods little town and had to take a leak, so I stopped in the alley. Some big bear of a man came out of nowhere with a knife, tellin' me I was either gonna give him all I had or wind up dead in my own piss. So I pulled out my pistol and shot him right in the cheek. Fucker was dead 'fore he hit the ground."

"And what did you feel?" John asked, watching Morgan carefully. He felt like he was finally getting along with the older cowboy. For so long the man had been an enigma wrapped in a mystery, and his steely demeanor had kept most people at bay.

"Nothing." The word was whispered, and Morgan's face remained eerily blank as he sat there. He turned his eyes to John's, and his expression became haunted. "That can't be normal, eh? I mean I can't be that far gone. Sometimes I just get so goddamn angry. But I felt nothing."

"I think you're reading too much into this," John interjected before the man worked himself into guilt, if he hadn't already. "The man was coming at you. You had no choice."

"I could've knocked him out or ran. I could've-"

"That's not who you are. That's not who _we_ are." John's bold words seemed to offer Morgan some comfort, for his expression softened a bit. Then he chuckled, looking away and lighting another cigarette, puffing on it to get it going. John cocked an eyebrow.

"You're smarter than you look, kid." It was John's turn to chuckle and he laid back on his bedroll, folding his arms behind his head.

"Yeah, well," He started as he tilted his hat over his face to nod off. He crossed his legs and closed his eyes. "Everybody needs a pick-me-up now and then."

"Thanks, Marston."

John fell asleep with a smile on his face and the comforting smell of Morgan's smoke filling his nose.

* * *

They awoke a little later that morning, around the first crack of light, most likely due to Morgan's overindulgence the night before. Their talk was weighing heavy in John's mind and he was beginning to see the other man in a whole new light. Said man was currently grumbling under his breath at Grey Wind, who kept pulling off her saddle blanket and throwing it to the forest floor every time he placed it on her tall back. John struggled to stifle a laugh and moved to tend to his own horse when something in the dirt made him stop. He knelt down to investigate. Deer tracks.

"If you don't quit, I'm gonna make a nice flank steak outta you." The blonde threatened the grey mare, who upon John's glance, was currently waving the blanket at him with her mouth playfully.

"Morgan, I've got tracks over here, can't tell how fresh." John called to the irritable man. "Looks to be at least a day old. Must've missed em in the dark."

Morgan threw the saddle to the ground with a huff and a scowl on his face. Grey Wind tossed the blanket on top of it, nodding her head vigorously.

"Damn stupid animal." Morgan grouched and stalked over to where John kneeled in the dirt. He took a quick look at the ground, sharp eyes studying, and knelt down to feel the print, saying, "Get your gear. With any luck, we'll bag 'em by the afternoon and be back in camp by tomorrow."

They saddled up quickly and took off in the direction of the animal tracks, Morgan gaze trained on the ground as John spotted him. Every now and then, they would change pace and direction, the antelope having been moving from grazing spot to grazing spot.

After some time of this, the sun had fully risen, and now beat furiously on John's back. A sweat bead developed on his temple and dripped down to disappear into his shirt and he wiped at his neck in annoyance. It was somehow growing hot despite the slight nip in the air.

He turned to complain to the blonde, "Morgan, I-" the other outlaw held a finger up for quiet, ducking down in his saddle. John followed suit, glancing around. They had come upon a ridge, and while they were hidden, John could see why Morgan had called for quiet.

Just on the other side of the lip of earth, down a short ten foot drop, a herd of about nine antelope grazed on lush green grass. Behind them, a forest bordered the clearing their prey was foraging in. If a shot was missed, and the animals escaped, the forest could prove problematic for them in terms of movement. The shot would have to count.

The outlaws dismounted and drew their bows from their saddle bags. They crept forward until they were peeking the ridge enough to survey the herd. There was a young buck with an abnormal set of antlers closer to the forest than the rest of the others. The left side had developed normally with two points tapering into a macabre spear, while the right side of the rack appeared to be crushed in. It was unclear what had caused his antlers to grow in that way, but it couldn't be useful for anything other than to scare off a predator, perhaps.

John had his eye on a meaty-looking doe that was closest to where they hid up the hill, and Morgan leaned in, asking lowly, "You remember where to aim?" His voice tickled the back of John's neck, and the younger man shivered slightly.

"Of course." He whispered back. _Does he have to be so damn close?_ The man's proximity made him uneasy.

"Then you take lead." John nodded in affirmation. He knocked an arrow. Looked down his sight, aiming just under the neck. He drew the string back slowly, and let it go with a _twang._

The arrow swished through the air with a dull whistling noise…

…to bury itself into her back left thigh. Morgan let out a groan.

The doe screamed in agony and fright, and the rest of the herd burst into a frenzy, each one darting quickly into the forest with the kind of grace only deer can muster. The injured antelope struggled to limp after them, her terrified bleating ringing out as she disappeared into the tree line.

John traded a look with Morgan. The older man raised an obnoxious eyebrow as if to mock him.

"Yeah, yeah, I got it." John mumbled, getting up, moving to run down the hillside.

"I'll get the horses!" Morgan called after him. John didn't reply, hurrying down the hill and quickly across the clearing, making his way into the woods. He clutched his bow tightly in his hands as his long strides saw him enter the undergrowth.

The trail went straight through bushes that were covered in the poor doe's blood. He could hear her bleating weakly from somewhere up ahead. He dashed forward, sticks and branches ripping at his clothes, and wiped a layer of sweat off of his forehead as the heat got worse due to physical exertion.

He pushed forward, moving the foliage aside, his eyes searching from side to side, and came upon where she had finally fallen and lay panting on her side. Her eyes were white rimmed in her terror, and she struggled to rise to her feet, but her hind leg gave out and she sank back to the ground, letting out a series of loud bleats.

"There, there, girl," John soothed the trembling antelope as he approached her, drawing his knife. He knelt by her head and turned his eyes skyward, lest he see her terror, and with a quick jerk of his blade, had stabbed her in the heart to finish it. Her cries halted mid-screech, and the air was silent save for the rustling of the trees.

The doe's blood covered his hands and he wiped them absent-mindedly on his pant leg. Finally, he'd done what they'd came for. He began to rise from his spot on the ground.

A rustling sound from John's left was all the warning he got before the bushes parted and the buck from earlier burst through it, his head lowered. He charged John with a ferocity that belied his insignificant rack, and suddenly the deformed antlers promised a deadly weapon as the spear-like spines sank into John's thigh.

John screamed as it punctured sensitive flesh, cause _holy shit that hurt,_ and the force of the buck's charge pushed John's back up against a tree. His arms came up reflexively, but the only thing to grab onto was the antlers that were buried in his left leg, and John clutched them in a vice grip, even though he was no match for the deer's strength at the moment. The brunette outlaw gritted his teeth and whimpered as the animal continued pushing into him, snorting furiously. Its dumb eyes seemed full of rage, and his little tail fluttered madly. Hot blood was leaking out of the wound and onto the forest floor in thick, stringy gobs, and was covering everything as John's other leg thrashed wildly, trying and failing to get traction on the slippery leaves. The buck tried to shake his head with John still attached to him, and the outlaw bellowed again, the pain making him feel like vomiting.

There was a _twang_ and the buck fell where he stood, dead from a black-tipped arrow in his chest. The deer slumped sideways and the point that stuck him like a pig tore out with the head's dead weight, bringing a gush of blood with it. John shouted and clutched at the wound hurriedly, feeling immensely drained.

Morgan swooped in, stepping over the two dead antelope and kneeling in front of John, his face tight with worry. "All right there, princess?"

"Don't call me that." John grit out, the pain coming in waves now.

"Is it bad?" Morgan asked, gesturing at where John clutched with one hand.

"Not sure." John answered. It was becoming hard to concentrate on talking and he just wanted to be home or knocked out or dead or _something_ because the pain was fucking _throbbing._ Morgan made a move like he was reaching for him, and John bit out a sharp "Don't touch me!"

Morgan gave him an odd look, but rose nonetheless, dropping his hand back to his side. "The horses are just over there." He pointed for emphasis, but John didn't look, instead trying to focus on a random spot on the forest floor to help keep him grounded. "I'm going to load up the carcasses and then we need to find a way to make sure your leg is going to be okay."

"No, it'll be fine." John snapped, not wanting to move at all. Morgan frowned. "It needs to be looked at." He insisted flatly.

"I can do it. I just-I just need to wrap it."

"Al…right then." Morgan said doubtfully and proceeded to go about dragging the mutilated doe off towards Big John.

Birds chirped overhead, and John leaned his back against the tree, raising his face skyward as Morgan went to work. Teeth gritted, he let out a sigh, steeling himself. Then, using his knife he'd dropped next to him in a tussle with a _deer_ of all things, he jerkily cut off both of his sleeves. He put the knife down and tied the ends of the fabric together to form one long makeshift bandage and looped it under his thigh. He panted, his breath harsh, and bent forward a little to examine the injury.

It looked like a jagged knife wound. The antler had gone in diagonally mere inches away from where his leg connected to his torso, leaving behind a gaping, black and blue wound. It had torn away roughly two inches of his flesh from where it had been ripped out, and body fluid seeped from it slowly and steadily. Grimacing, he tied the bandage tightly over it, holding his breath, then letting it out again when his knot was finished. It should hold for now.

By the time Morgan was done loading the deer onto both horses, John was leaning against the tree, panting. He could put no weight on his leg, the limb shaking too uncontrollably to hold his bulk.

"Ready to get on your horse?" John's head swiveled to look at him upon the question, and he grunted, though his face looked like he thought it was far more likely if a flying ship landed next to them and offered them a ride. He let out a short whistle for Big John to come over, and the horse gave a low nicker in greeting upon reaching him. John eyed the stallion apprehensively, trying to work out how he was going to climb into the saddle without passing out.

He grabbed the reins from the horse's neck and grasped the saddle horn, preparing to try and plant a foot in the saddle, when he was lifted up by his waist. John yelped in surprise as Morgan pushed him up so that he was lying across the saddle sideways. From there he slowly slid his right leg over Big John's back and gradually eased himself into a sitting position so that he was straddling the animal's spine. He panted heavily as the movement disturbed his wounded leg, and Morgan watched him carefully.

"Ya good?" The blonde asked. John nodded, deciding to deal with his pain and not gripe to Morgan about it, not wanting to appear weak. "Alright, then" The other man moved to Grey Wind and mounted up, wheeling the dappled grey about and clicking his tongue to urge her forward. Big John followed Grey Wind without needing to be prompted, and the sway of his gait caused John's wound to twinge painfully.

They moved slowly away from the blood-stained ground, making their way across the clearing and climbing the ridge from earlier. The sun felt hotter than ever, and a thick sheen of sweat enveloped John as he focused on disassociating himself from the pain in his limb. A sudden wind whipped around them, tossing the horses' manes and tails haphazardly in the breeze.

They rode back the way they'd came, beginning the journey home, and every now and then, Morgan shot him a concerned glance.

Night fell slowly as they passed everything they'd seen the day before, and they rode on past Armadillo. Morgan had suggested they'd stop in to see a doctor, and John had vehemently protested, claiming he would be fine so long as they made it home. He didn't want a doctor to look at him, didn't want to be drugged with pain meds, and didn't' want to appear weak in front of the cowboy he'd grown to respect over the past few days. Morgan had rolled his eyes but said nothing in contradiction.

A few hours later saw the two cowboys bedding down for the night. John's injury had made their progress slow, but they had still covered decent ground and would likely make it back tomorrow evening if all went well. Morgan had helped John down off of Big John and helped him hobble over to his bedroll by the fire. The older man had set up their makeshift camp quickly on his own, and for that, John was thankful. He needed to rest.

Crickets chirped, and insects buzzed angrily around them. John swatted at them in annoyance, and Morgan glanced at him from where he poked the fire across from him. The jeans John wore had been ripped open when the antler had torn loose, and the brunette outlaw examined the crude bandage. Blood had seeped through, soaking the side of his pants, and when John lightly brushed the cloth, the painful twinge his leg gave made him groan audibly.

Morgan watched him, concern written all over his face. "I need to look at that." His gruff voice was uninhibited, having not touched the half empty bottle of booze, yet. John gave him a sharp look.

"No."

"Why the hell not?" John watched nervously as Morgan stood and approached him, seeming intent on looking at the wound, no matter John's objecting. He stood over the younger cowboy, staring down at his leg. His expression hardened, and John watched him like a deer watches a wolf.

"It'll be fine. I'll take care of it when we get back."

"That's the third time you've said that, and if we don't look at it now, you could get blood poisoning."

"Yeah, well, it's my leg, and I said no." John snarled from his spot on the ground.

"Why are you being so damn difficult?"

"Why are _you_ being so damn difficult?" John shot back. He had no intention of letting Morgan touch him.

"Look, kid, I can either look at your leg right now, or punch you in the face and look at it. Either way, I'm looking at it." Morgan's green eyes glinted dangerously, suggesting the older man wasn't playing around.

John tensed as Morgan knelt beside him and reached for the bandage. He gasped painfully as the older man untied the cloth and examined the wound. It had begun to fester.

"I need to clean it and stitch it." Morgan said finally.

"No." John bit out stubbornly.

Morgan cuffed the younger man in the back of the head, and John raised his hands to rub the spot as Morgan moved away to fish something out of his saddle bags. "If I don't do this right now, you might not be alive to make it back to camp, and I don't want to be the one to tell Dutch and Hosea that their son died by being mauled by a deformed deer."

Morgan returned to John's leg, clutching the bottle of whisky, an actual bandage roll, and a needle and thread. He offered the bottle to John, who accepted it gratefully, and kneeled in front of him again, threading the string through the eye of the needle and tying it off. John drained half of the remaining booze, the burn from the liquor making him cough. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and passed the bottle back to Morgan.

"Ready?" Morgan asked, and John met his gaze, steeling himself.

"Ready." He answered.

Morgan poured some of the liquid onto John's wound to sterilize it, and John let out an agonized moan as the alcohol did it's work. Morgan ignored him and set the bottle down, lowering the needle to the pained man's thigh.

As he punctured the flesh, John balled his fists up in the dirt behind him noisily, clutching at the sticks and grass he found there. His breath came out harsh as Morgan worked, fire spreading down his leg and to his groin as wave upon wave of agony worked its way through his muscles. The booze helped to filter out most of the pain, however, and John was thankful for that.

Morgan's face was a mask of concentration as he threaded the needle in and out of skin, gradually sewing up broken flesh back together as if it were cloth. He glanced at John's distressed face every now and then, concerned. Behind Morgan, the fire crackled and waved, and near them the horses grazed as always, their long tails swishing.

Morgan finished his stitching and pulled back to examine his handiwork with a critical eye, his hat low over his face. The sewn skin looked angry, but distinctly better than it had before, only consisting of a gaping, gory wound.

John took another pull of the bottle, his vision growing hazy as the drink took effect. He hardly felt the pain in his leg anymore, the ache dumbing down to a dull throb. Morgan finished in wrapping the fresh bandage around John's stitches and stood. "Should be fine until we make it back, so long as you don't do anything to tear it open again."

John nodded drunkenly and murmured a "Thanks." Morgan took the bottle back and moved back over to his own spot by the fire. Morgan took a swig from the nearly empty bottle and afterwards lit a cigarette.

'Once again, just another damsel in distress.' John thought to himself self-deprecatingly. He always needed rescuing, and some things never changed.

Morgan must've seen the look on his face, for he said, "Don't be so hard on yourself, kid." John looked at him. Morgan was watching him, his expression soft. The man took a puff of his cigarette and exhaled slowly. "Shit happens all the time. Just be glad he didn't run you through the chest."

"Yeah, just seems shit always happens to me." John replied.

"I'm not gonna say that's not true, but it does seem like you often get the short end of the stick."

"I'm just…" John began, rubbing his fingers together anxiously. He looked down at his hands. "I always need saving. I'm tired of it."

Morgan watched him for a moment, then said, "Yeah, you do need saving quite a lot."

"Thanks." John answered dryly.

"Nothing wrong with that, you're still learning. We all are." Morgan said, grinning. "Hell, I've seen Bill put his boots on the wrong feet, and he's twenty seven."

John let out a guffaw. Williamson wasn't the smartest man in the gang, that fact was well known, and to hear a man that looked down on him doing such a thing made John smile.

"I just don't know what Dutch sees in me." He stated, his smile fading. "He said fate brought us together, but he picked me out of a dozen other kids on the street. He could've picked anyone of them, but he picked me to ride with, to fight with. And since then, I haven't made myself useful in the slightest, save for an extra hand on a job."

Morgan waved him off, shaking his head, "Like I said, you're too hard on yourself, kid."

"What do you know of it?" John snarked, feeling like his frame of mind was being dismissed. "How do you know how I feel? Dutch looks to you like his right hand. He can depend on you not to fuck up whatever job you're on because you never do."

Morgan stared at him. "You do more than you think."

"How so?" John growled.

"Well, for starters, your aim with a gun is impeccable." His comment surprised John slightly at the praise. "I've seen you miss maybe a dozen times out of all the shots you've taken in the past several years, even though it would seem your aim with a bow isn't perfect." He rubbed the cherry of the cigarette out in between his fingers and chucked the butt somewhere away from them. "If you're not helping us rob some idiot, you're helping out the women with dishes. If you're not hunting us down some food, you're fishing with Hosea, who God knows, loves the company. That man looks at you like his son."

John looked away from Morgan's searching gaze, flabbergasted. He had no idea Morgan knew such things about him. He felt embarrassed.

"Thanks Morgan." He mumbled, feeling his cheeks blazing.

"No problem, kid." Morgan replied. "And the name's Arthur."

John looked back at the older outlaw as if seeing him for the first time.

"Alright, Arthur," He said, trying out the name in his mouth. "You can call me John."

"Nice to officially meet you, John." Arthur said, smiling at him. John hummed in agreement, as the campfire twisted up and into the night.


End file.
